"Look what I found Flounder, Leander my fishy. Another shiny things from above~✨"
ITS MAY so MERMAY season!🧜🐚
I hope you like my Merman Garreth, he's always giving Ariel to me if he ever become one. Collecting shiny bottles and trinkets form above.
Yes that fish suppose to be Leander, I don't know if it's similar, perhaps it's too cartoony. I can't draw fish, LOL
And Happy Monday everyone😊🙌
How they act when they're sick - Ominis, Sebastian, Garreth, Poppy
this is what happens when I’m emotionally exhausted and decide everyone deserves blankets, tea, and someone who stays. sick headcanons, that’s it, that’s the post 🫶
also credits to @/me-writes-prompts for the two prompts and @/writersisland for the other two!!
masterlist!
Ominis Gaunt
Ominis insists he’s fine, which is how you know he absolutely isn’t.
He’s bundled far too tightly on the Slytherin sofa, green knit blanket pulled up to his chin like it personally offended him. His wand rests loosely in his hand, tip glowing faintly as it tracks your movement across the common room. You catch the way it wobbles when you stop in front of him.
“You’re hovering,” he says, voice rough around the edges but fond. “If you’re going to fuss, at least commit to it.”
You press the back of your hand to his forehead without warning.
“You’re hot.”
“I know, love,” he says easily, lips quirking despite himself. “But this is not the time.”
“Oh my god—” you laugh, immediately mortified. “I’m talking about your temperature.”
There’s a beat.
Then he exhales a quiet, wheezy laugh and tips his head back against the sofa. “Merlin, help me.”
“You’re burning up,” you say, gentler now, thumb brushing his temple. “Why didn’t you tell me you felt this bad?”
“Because,” he says, turning his face slightly into your touch, “I hoped if I ignored it, it would go away.”
“That is the worst possible strategy.”
“It’s worked before.”
You make a noise of deep scepticism and reach for the potion vial you’d hidden behind your back. “Drink.”
He frowns. “Is that Pepper-Up?”
“Yes.”
“The one that tastes like regret?”
“Drink,” you repeat.
He does, grimacing dramatically, then immediately reaches for you, fingers curling into the fabric of your sleeve like it’s instinct. You sit beside him without thinking, and he leans in, forehead pressing to your shoulder. His wand slips from his grasp, dimming as it rolls against your leg.
“Stay,” he murmurs, already half-asleep.
You wrap an arm around him, careful, warm, and he relaxes fully—breathing evening out, body heavy with trust. His voice is softer now, words barely there.
“You’re very good at this,” he says. “Being here.”
You smile, brushing your fingers through his hair.
“Get some rest, Gaunt.”
“Mmm,” he hums. “I love you.”
Yeah. You’re not moving anytime soon.
Sebastian Sallow
Sebastian is terrible at being sick.
He insists on sitting up even when he’s clearly dizzy, sprawled messily across his bed with a blanket he keeps kicking off and a glass of water he keeps forgetting to drink. His usual spark is dulled, but it’s still there—flickering stubbornly, like he refuses to let it go out completely.
You hover in the doorway for a moment, taking him in.
“I hate seeing you like this,” you say at last, sitting on the edge of the mattress. “Feels wrong when you’re not being annoying.”
He lets out a weak huff of a laugh. “Wow. That’s how you show concern now?”
“You love it.”
“I do,” he admits easily, then coughs and scowls at his own body like it’s betrayed him. “Don’t get used to this. I’m only quiet because breathing hurts.”
You reach out, pushing his hair back from his forehead. He’s warm—too warm—and he leans into your touch before he can stop himself. When he realises, he doesn’t pull away. Just closes his eyes, lashes resting against his cheeks.
“Stay,” he says, softer than usual. Not a demand. Not a joke.
You stay.
He drifts after that, tension easing from his shoulders, fingers brushing yours like he needs the reassurance without wanting to say it. For once, there’s no teasing, no clever remark waiting in reserve.
Just Sebastian, worn down enough to let you take care of him—and trusting you not to make a big deal out of it.
Tomorrow, he’ll be annoying again.
Tonight, this is enough.
Garreth Weasley
Garreth is talking to himself when you walk in.
He’s pacing the Gryffindor common room with a blanket half-draped over his shoulders, gesturing animatedly as he explains—again—why the concoction simmering in a mug would have worked if he’d just adjusted the temperature. He pauses only to cough, then waves it off like it’s an inconvenient interruption.
“Garreth,” you say flatly.
He turns, eyes lighting up when he sees you. “Oh! Perfect timing—I was just thinking, if I add a dash of—”
“Lay your ass down and drink the tea I made you.”
He blinks.
Once. Twice.
“…You made tea?”
“Yes. Normal tea. No experiments. Sit.”
There’s a moment where he clearly considers arguing. Then another cough hits him harder this time, and the fight drains right out of his shoulders. He lets you steer him toward the sofa, grumbling good-naturedly as he sinks down beneath the blanket.
“For the record,” he mutters, accepting the mug, “I was about to rest.”
“Sure you were.”
He takes a careful sip, nose wrinkling. “Okay, yeah. This is actually really good.”
You tuck the blanket around him properly, and his voice softens without him noticing. “Sorry,” he adds, quieter. “Didn’t mean to worry you. I just thought I could fix it myself.”
“I know,” you say.
He looks at you then—really looks—and smiles, tired but genuine. “Thanks for stopping me before I blew something up.”
“Anytime.”
He drinks the rest of the tea without complaint, eyes fluttering shut as the common room noise fades into the background. For once, Garreth Weasley lets someone else take over.
Even if it’s just for tonight.
Poppy Sweeting
Poppy doesn’t mean to disappear when she’s sick. It just… happens, so she says.
You find her in the Hufflepuff dormitory with the curtains drawn wide, sunlight spilling across the floor in warm stripes. She’s curled beneath a mess of quilts, hair loose, cheeks flushed in a way that has nothing to do with embarrassment this time. There’s a faint, earthy smell in the air—dried herbs, something floral you can’t quite place.
“You look cute, all bundled in the blankets,” you say softly.
She peeks at you over the edge of the quilt, eyes bright despite herself.
“Hehe, yeah.” She coughs immediately after, turning her face away as if embarrassed by the sound.
You sit beside her without comment, smoothing the blankets back up around her shoulders. She relaxes at once, like she’d been holding herself together out of habit rather than comfort.
“I didn’t want to worry anyone,” she admits quietly. “The Puffskeins seemed fine this morning. I thought I could… manage.”
You brush your thumb over her knuckles. They’re warm. Too warm.
“Managing doesn’t mean being alone,” you murmur.
She nods, slow and thoughtful, then leans into your side like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Within minutes, her breathing evens out, lashes resting against flushed cheeks. Her hand stays curled around yours, gentle but certain.
Outside, the castle hums on—students laughing, footsteps echoing—but here, it’s just warmth and sunlight and the steady comfort of being found.
This time, she lets herself rest.
a/n: I may or may not be dwelling into headcanons more often than I should because I enjoyed writing this a lot AUGDASHASJDA
